No Loki
by vampire.tribble
Summary: This story explores what might have happened to Loki between Thor and The Avengers to turn an angry young Asgardian into a complete psychopath.


The cell was small and unadorned. The door was a solid slab of metal recessed less than an inch into the metal wall, with no discernible means to open it. There was a panel in the low ceiling letting in a dim yellow light. Scuff marks on the cold tiled floor showed where the current occupant had been dragged in. The only furniture was a metal soil bucket, and whilst it was empty, it was not clean.  
He woke from a nightmare he couldn't remember. He was sweating and trembling from the terror he'd woken from, and he ached all over. His long black hair was unkempt and plastered to his head. Purple and yellow bruises dappled his pale athletic body, and his strong features were marred by confusion and misery. He was wearing a loincloth, too grubby to discern the colour which felt unfamiliar against his skin. There was a vague buzzing which was irritating, preventing him from thinking properly and distinct from that was a quiet hum that acted as an odd counterpoint.  
His mouth was dry and gritty, and he felt clammy from sweating. The smell of the cell's previous occupants was more than a little obvious.  
He rolled onto his side and groaned as his body objected to the movement, muscles and bruises complaining equally. He stood gingerly and made his way to the soil bucket, and after dealing with his most urgent need he decided to examine the door. He tried unsuccessfully to open it, and since calling out brought no response, he limped back to where he'd been laid and sat down to wonder how he got there, how long he'd been there, and, more importantly, who he was.

Weet stood glaring into the auction pen, annoyed that he'd had to travel across half a planet to find out why his most profitable business was no longer as lucrative as it should be. His annoyance turning to anger as he watched his agent casually chatting to a couple of high ranking slaves by the door to his offices – 'my offices', Weet thought. He was an impressive sight at 7ft tall, and he towered over everyone around him and even for his own race he was taller than most. His scales were golden and his cowl, when extended, reached a foot either side of his head. A purple and gold silk kaftan covered his large, powerful form, revealing only his arms and tail. His fingers, adorned with gold, ended in long sharp talons, decorated with gold and silver paint, and he wore sandals on his feet.  
His bisected tongue flicked out of his mouth as he hissed his displeasure at the overseer nearby, who flinched and then brought his whip down on one of the pitiful group of slaves he was herding into the pen, misunderstanding Weet's anger for impatience.  
His agent looked over, hearing Weet's hiss with concern, his confidence momentarily checked. One of those with him said something, probably derogatory, because he pulled back the frills on the cuffs of his shirt to reveal the back of his hand to the one who spoke, who then looked abashed and walked away. The agent, obviously mollified by that one's reaction regained his confidence and walked towards Weet.  
"Jakon," Weet bellowed. "What is going on, the quality of slaves you have here is appalling! I'm surprised you are even bothering to try and sell them; one of them has only one leg! What use is that?"  
Jakon, Weet's agent, was a 6ft tall albino, with the trademark pink eyes and pale skin, made paler by his incongruously black waist length hair, tied back with a white silk ribbon. His slight, fragile looking frame was clothed in a white silk suit, with a black shirt, tie and shoes. His shirt had frilly long cuffs that hid his hands. He grinned at Weet and said; "Weet! It's good to see you. We have been having some problems with our suppliers recently, but I believe they've just been solved."  
Weet leaned into Jakon and flicked the cuff of his left hand back to reveal a filled in circle tattoo. He twisted a talon hard into the tattoo, drawing blood, and said; "Do not toy with me Jakon. I already know there have been 'problems', I'm not here to be patronised. Remember where you came from."  
When slaves came to the pens an empty circle was tattooed onto the back of their left hands. When they were sold an "x" was added to the circle, and the new owners used their own means of marking ownership of their slaves. A filled in circle meant that a slave had not been sold, but had been freed by Weet. Jakon was one of a very small number of slaves freed by him. Jakon had earned his freedom through his unquestioning loyalty and cleverness. Weet trusted him, and felt he would be more useful managing his slave business as a free man, however Weet was a businessman, and was not above reminding Jakon how much he owed to him.  
Jakon nodded his understanding and waited for Weet to remove his talon with his eyes downcast, showing submission towards his former master.  
Weet, pleased with Jakon's humility, withdrew his hand and walked towards the luxurious pavilion that had been set up as his home away from home.  
Jakon took a tissue from his pocket and covered the bead of blood with it, to protect his expensive shirt, then caught up with Weet and began talking animatedly; "I've just had a message from one of our slaver ships. The 'Catastrophe in the sky', as everyone is calling it, has caused a number of natural disasters on the nearest planets, and we've had easy pickings from them for free, as their infrastructure is in chaos. They've picked up what they can and have diverted other ships over there to get more. They'll be leaving for the rest as soon as they've made their first delivery to us.  
"They're also carrying an unusual character taken from one of your salvage ships. He was found among the flotsam floating in space. They'd believed he was a corpse at first and had only taken him on board because his clothing looked valuable, otherwise they'd have ignored him. Apparently when they got him on the ship they realised he was still alive and contacted the slave ship straight away." Jakon grinned.  
The 'Catastrophe in the sky' had happened the day before, and had caused some strange weather conditions on the planet, a volcano had erupted, covering it's local area in smoke and lava. Luckily it had caused minimal damage, with only a few inhabited areas being in any way affected. The salvage ships had been sent out to investigate the phenomena as soon as communications had come back up. Jakon had sent out the slavers as it had occurred nearer some other inhabited planets in the same system and he'd suspected that they may not have been so lucky.  
Appeased at the thought of increased profit and intrigued by Jakon's story, Weet relaxed. "So what about these pathetic specimens?" He gestured towards the pen; "Why are you selling slaves with one leg?"  
Jakon glanced at the pen and said; "The Other buys all the live slaves that we don't sell on the block for ten per cent above our cost. Even the useless ones are worth more alive than dead. This batch weren't advertised to the public, we didn't want them thinking our quality of slaves had slipped, I'd rather they thought we were selling less, than selling poor quality. Anyway, these are going straight to the Other. I suspect he eats the ones he has no use for."  
Weet reached his pavilion, it was a large tent; open at the front and sides, expensive furniture and rugs visible under the canopy, with sleeping quarters behind the covering at the back. Jakon followed Weet inside, and walked over to a richly upholstered chair.  
"So tell me about this 'floating character'" asked Weet.  
"There's not much more to say," replied Jakon, "he was dressed like a lord floating amongst the wreckage. No-one knows where he came from, whether he had anything to do with the 'catastrophe', or was just a victim of it. That he was alive is a miracle by itself, and that's why he was passed on to the slavers. They didn't want to risk him waking up in case he had power, and the slavers have dampening fields in their ships as standard.  
"Whatever the case, it won't hurt our profits if we have a look at him, and if he's no good we can just sell him to the Other."  
Weet nodded. "How long before they arrive?"  
"About ten days. He was found last night, and given to the slavers about an hour ago, so they've got a bit of a trek." Jakon sat in the upholstered chair, once Weet had lowered himself onto an ornate divan. Weet waved to is current slave boy to bring refreshments.  
Jakon looked up, his attention drawn out of the pavilion. Weet turned his head to see what had attracted him.  
The overseer was running towards them from the pens in an obvious panic, when he reached the edge of the rug he dropped to his knees and pressed his head to the ground.  
"Begging your pardon, masters", he squeaked breathlessly, "but the Other wishes to speak with you".  
Jakon got up and kicked the overseer, who gave a pitiful squeak of pain, "get back to the slaves, idiot!" he said, since the Other had already reached the pavilion himself.  
Weet gestured the Other to a seat and his slave boy offered him refreshment. The Other sat and waved away the boy. "My apologies for not requesting an appointment, but I must speak to you urgently concerning a 'special cargo' being brought here in one of your ships.  
"Special cargo?" asked Weet.  
"The 'cargo' was acquired by one of your salvage crews and passed to another ship. My master has use for such as that, and will pay generously to own it."  
Weet hid his irritation that the Other must have known about the 'cargo' before he did. Jakon leaned forward in his seat to speak; "If we did have this 'special cargo' and we were willing to sell it, what would be your terms?"  
The Other glared at Jakon for a moment, then turned to Weet and calmly said; "You have the cargo. We will buy it when it arrives here, or we will take it from the wreckage of your slaver ship at our convenience. You are useful to my master in many of your enterprises, but not so useful that we cannot destroy you and all you hold dear to get what my master wants." The Other sat back in his seat.  
"My master will pay you twelve times the value of the slave that raises the highest price from the same shipment. This also buys your silence on the matter. The salvagers who found the cargo were not so circumspect and will be replaced." The Other smiled then looked pointedly at Weet's slave boy.  
Weet did not want to bring the Other's master's wrath upon himself, so swallowed his pride and ignored the threat. "The boy is mute." he said quietly. "Unless they need them my slaves have their tongues removed as a matter of course."  
The Other nodded, satisfied. "Then do we have an agreement?"  
"Agreed." said Weet, and leant forward to shake the Other's hand. "Though I would like to see the cargo when it is handed over, if you don't mind."  
The Other grinned, and shook Weet's hand; "You may see it, but I doubt you will be impressed." He said enigmatically.  
He stood, nodded to them both, and left the pavilion.  
Weet and Jakon looked at each other. "Well," said Weet. "It looks to be a rather profitable day." He raised his cup to Jakon and took a sip.

He woke from the nightmare again: He'd been thrown into the air and was falling. A star dropped from the sky and resolved itself into an old man with a golden eye patch. He felt he should know him, but the name eluded him. The old man caught him and they spoke to each other. He couldn't remember what they'd said, then the old man let go. He fell, and woke in a sweat, trembling with the terror of it.  
There was a food tray just inside the door, attached to a metal strip so that the door could be raised a few inches and the tray pulled out without anyone needing to enter the room to fetch it. On it was a bowl of something unidentifiable, and a cup of water.  
He marked the time by the arrival and removal of the trays; he'd decided that each tray must come once a day since each time he woke there would be a fresh one. His captors seemed unconcerned with his welfare, since each day the fare would be the same as the last, and would leave the cell untouched, except for the water. His body, already with little fat reserves was weakening with the lack of food, and he knew he could not last much longer.  
The soil bucket stank; it had never been emptied as long as he'd been a captive. He'd spent most of his time pressed into the corner opposite the bucket breathing through his mouth. The buzzing in his head had become progressively stronger, to the point that he felt his whole body was vibrating with the violence of it, and his head felt like it might explode. He wanted to die, and he hated himself for giving into his thirst. He crawled to the tray, and inadvertently caught sight of the unidentifiable mess in the bowl as he drank. He gagged then retched at the sight of it, he turned his head and closed his eyes while he waited for his stomach to settle enough so he could move, then he crawled back to his corner, curled into a ball and locked his fingers behind his head. The buzzing was inescapable, the food inedible and the smell unbearable. He sobbed, catching the odour of the bucket in the back of his throat. He retched again, and then finally vomited the only water he would get that day.

Weet waited impatiently as the door to the slaver ship opened. The Other's ship had arrived a few hours earlier, and was waiting a hundred feet away. Weet, Jakon and the Other were stood together on the runway as the Other's people brought the vehicle to transport his purchase to his ship, and Weet's own people readied the other slaves to take to the pens. Weet knew the 'special cargo' was a man, possibly royalty, and at least a lord by the clothing he was wearing when he was found. Though it hadn't been said outright, he must be from a race that wouldn't survive empty space without some protection, or he wouldn't be so special, which meant he had to have some powers. He watched as the other slaves were herded out of the hold with only enough interest to calculate their possible worth, and decide which one might be worth the most.  
Once only the three of them were left the 'special cargo' was brought from the ship. A pitiful half-starved humanoid creature was being supported by two of the Other's people. He squinted in the sunlight, and then as he crossed the threshold, he stumbled and had to be half carried, half dragged to the Other's vehicle. Startled by what he saw, Weet looked at the Other with trepidation for a reaction. He was yet to be paid.  
The Other, seeing Weet's look, smiled and said; "I told you you wouldn't be impressed. Don't worry, you will be paid as agreed, we are not unhappy with his condition."  
Weet breathed again and nodded. He took his leave of the Other, Jakon following close behind.

He was sat in his corner, still damp from the water he'd vomited, when the door opened. He looked up, fear filling his being as two creatures in armour came in. He feebly tried to backpedal further into the corner as they took hold of his arms, linked them over their shoulders and pulled him to his feet. Too weak to struggle, his only option was to try and keep up as they took him into a corridor and then outside. Squinting at the daylight as they reached the threshold he felt something change. The buzzing that had been with him since he woke up that first day suddenly vanished. With it went his ability to understand the world around him. Nothing was familiar; everything visible became just shapes and colour, the sounds he heard became unintelligible noise. He stumbled, no longer able to coordinate his movements, walking had become an impossibility, so he had to be half carried, half dragged. He was locked in his head while he was taken somewhere else.  
A short and surreal journey brought him exhausted to where he now laid. Much more comfortable than the floor of his cell, the sustenance he was fed, more palatable, and the air, a lot cleaner, so he soon fell asleep. The dream came again, the same as before; he was thrown into the air, the star came down and became the old man who caught him. He spoke to the old man; "I could have done it father, I could have done it, for you, for all of us."  
"No Loki." The old man replied; "You killed your father,"  
"No!"  
"You destroyed Jotunheim and everyone in it."  
"No, please!"  
"You killed your true family, you are a murderer!"  
"Father, please!"  
"No Loki." said Odin, and let go of him.

Loki woke sweating remembering the dream, knowing it hadn't just been a dream, but was a memory of events that had actually happened, he sat up gasping. A soft hand stroked his hair; "shush, shush, it's only a nightmare." The voice was Frigga's, he was in his room on Asgard.  
"Mother?" he asked.  
"No dear, you killed her when you destroyed Jotunheim, remember?"  
Loki recoiled; Frigga was the only mother he'd ever known. Through his entire life she had been his rock, his only constant, the only one who took his side when others were blaming him. Why would she be so cruel?  
He turned to her; "Why?" he begged. Calmly she said; "You're evil Loki, you're a nasty little worm who doesn't deserve a loving family." She smiled and drew away from him.  
"Mother, please!" he cried.  
"No Loki." She said, and left him alone.

He woke sweating and sat up gasping, tears rolling down his face. He tried to make sense of his surroundings and failed; nothing was recognisable. He sobbed, he was as helpless as a baby and worse than that, he knew it.

Thanos sat back and smiled. The dampening field on the slaver ship had been a hindrance, but the results were unexpectedly good. It had worked in his favour, and should remove months from the work he would have to do to get complete control of Loki. He could already manipulate him with little effort, and he would enjoy bending him fully to his will. He hoped it wouldn't be too easy.

Loki was restrained at wrist and ankle, to the arms and legs of a metal chair, his body trembling, having been dragged roughly from where he'd slept, cleaned and fed then strapped down.  
A strong presence made itself felt, huge and oppressive filling the space around him, Loki whimpered as panic washed over him. A commanding voice spoke; "Loki," it said; "I'm going to ask you some questions. Be careful how you answer them, an incorrect answer will be punished."  
"What do you want?" It asked.  
"I want to die." he whimpered.  
A heat filled his gut that quickly became unbearable. He started gasping as he felt his internal organs burn. His skin blistered and his lips cracked. He screamed from the agony, and then the pain lessened before he could pass out.  
Another question was asked. "Why did you kill Laufey?"  
Gasping for breath Loki managed to utter; "He was going to kill Odin"  
The heat started again, "No!" he screamed; "It's true! I swear it!" It made no difference, the burning returned, along with the excruciating pain.  
More questions were asked, one after another, and every answer he gave resulted in burning torture. Not answering brought the same results. He begged for it to stop, and still it carried on, relentless, he burned and yet he stayed awake, stayed alive. The questions and pain carried on long after his screams had damaged his throat so badly he'd lost the ability to speak and could only spit blood.  
Eventually he was carried from his ordeal and laid down. He was given some water and left on his own to sleep. Fatigue overtook him; he slept and he dreamed.

Thanos was frustrated that he hadn't even been able to scratch the surface of Loki's true self. He'd tortured him beyond endurance and left him weakened and paralysed with fear, yet he still held on to that little part of himself. He needed Loki for his plans, but without complete control he would be a loose cannon. Access to Loki's power would render him unable to resist Thanos's will. Thanos struck the slave ministering to him, sending him flying across the room; his face a bloody mess.

Loki was sitting restrained at wrist and ankle again. Washed and fed, he begged; "Please, I can't... I'm sorry, please, I can't..." His voice was no more than a whisper, his throat an unbearable agony, his lips sore and cracked.  
The presence came back, stifling his words. "You will Loki, until you give yourself to me fully, you will".  
Pain pricked Loki's skin, and his muscles contracted. He felt as if he was being crushed, his breathing became laboured, pressure built up against his bones, his eyes and his organs. He waited for something to give, his bones to break, his eyes to burst, or his lungs to collapse, but it didn't happen, it went on and on. His head went back and his mouth became a rictus from the pain, opening the cracks in his lips causing them to bleed. Then it stopped; so suddenly he was thrown forward. His breath came in gasps, and he made involuntary noises as the relief washed through him. He was expecting to be unstrapped, but instead he felt pain rip through his abdomen as if he'd been brutally kicked. Again and again the violence came, in his legs, his arms, his head, and all over his body. He recoiled with each attack, but there was no-one there. He was being viciously kicked continually, savagely. He couldn't retaliate or protect himself, because he couldn't move. He quietly begged for it to stop, tears streaming down his face, burning his lips, diluting the blood seeping from them.

Time passed. Loki's days were filled with suffering and misery. Each day would be different. Maddening sounds that would go on for hours, or would start and stop with no rhyme or reason. He'd have visions; flashing lights or even complete scenes where he would be vilified and humiliated, peppered with days of agony.  
His nights were packed with nightmares; the 'Odin dream', or a repeat of the torture of the day, or dreams of Asgard after he fell; his passing wasn't mourned, no-one considered looking for him or his body, whenever he was mentioned it was after a mishap when someone would say; "Oh dear, Loki must be haunting you." And they would laugh. In one he killed Frigga, begging her forgiveness as he pierced her heart with a dagger, in another he killed Laufey after watching Laufey murder Frigga.  
There were times when he couldn't sleep, when he would lay awake for hours before being taken back to his tormentor and his ordeal would seem so much worse. Sometimes he would sleep for a short time then would be woken up to be tortured where he lay. Over and over again he would sleep then wake to pain and torment. Occasionally he would be left alone to recover. A whole day, maybe two would go by without any horror. However, not being able to do anything, even examine his surroundings, meant that all he could do was think, and since his whole world consisted of torture, that was all he could think about.  
Ultimately, he couldn't predict what might happen next because there was no pattern to it, and that seemed to make it all worse.

The last dream he had was the 'Odin dream'. It started differently to how it usually did. He was on the Rainbow Bridge, the energy of the Bifrost coruscating as it spun out of control, and Thor was destroying the bridge with his hammer. They were both thrown from it as it collapsed, and Odin appeared, caught Thor, and Loki caught Odin's staff. This distinction was not lost on Loki; it was simple luck that had stopped him from falling, not Odin's hand. He shouted to Odin; "I could have done it father, I could have done it, for you, for all of us."  
Odin replied sternly; "No Loki." The rest of his speech was written clearly across his face. Loki could not bear to hear it again, to be so brutally rejected, so he let go of the staff, there was no point in hanging on, since Odin would have let him go anyway.

The next day something inside him seemed to give up. Something he didn't even realise was there snapped releasing whatever was hidden behind it.  
He was in the chair again restrained as usual at wrist and ankle when it had happened. The presence hadn't even made itself felt yet. He'd been thinking of the last 'Odin dream' at the time, the knowledge that he'd finally seen the whole truth of it; that the events were a true memory, and not just a dream. The inside of his head suddenly felt strange, like someone had run their nails down a blackboard, or noisily scraped their cutlery against a china plate. He conjured up an image of a huge purple being, which startled him, as he hadn't intended to do it, nor, until that moment, had he realised it was something he could do. The image spoke, with the voice that had tormented him for so long.  
"Loki," It said, pleasure in his voice. "At last we can work together as allies; you have finally given to me what I want.  
"Do you remember what I said we would do once you gave yourself to me completely?"  
Loki shook his head not sure of anything.  
"You shall rule Midgard as it's king. You shall show it's inhabitants the folly of their petty fighting for power they cannot hope to control. I will lend you an army, but you must go there alone. The item I would have used to send you with the army, the Tesseract, has been stolen by the mortals who live there, and I can only send one at a time using it's power. Once you are there you will need to recruit help to get the Tesseract, I will give you what you need to do that. You will need to use it to open a portal to allow the army through. When you have done that, you will give the Tesseract to my agent, the Other, who will then bring it to me, and Midgard shall be yours."  
"What is the Tesseract?" asked Loki.  
"Watch." said the creature.  
Loki got the strange feeling in his head again, and created an image of a scene where two people were discussing something. One of them opened a case to reveal a shining blue cube and described it as the Tesseract to the other.  
"Well that's worth a look." said Loki.  
"Well that's worth a look." repeated the second man.  
Loki dismissed the scene and was surprised with the ease with which he was able to plant the suggestion in the second man's mind.  
"That Loki," said the purple creature; "was Dr Selvig. You will need to bring him to your side, and he will be with the Tesseract when you arrive. Loki was unstrapped from the chair and helped to his feet. He was brought clothing, similar, but not the same as, clothing he was used to wearing in Asgard. It seemed more regal somehow. He was given a staff, short and curved with a blue gem, the colour of the Tesseract, and reflected in his eyes, held where the staff bisected at the top. As he took it, it felt like it welcomed him as if he'd always known it, like an old friend. He felt stronger, energised, and ready to do whatever it took to get what he wanted, and he wanted Midgard. He was born to rule, and that's what he meant to do.

Thanos was satisfied. It had taken almost a year to finally break Loki, and there were times when he came too close to losing him to death, but the result was perfect. Loki didn't know that his use of his power had been so completely controlled. The destruction of Midgard would be easy.

While he felt stronger, Loki still needed help to dress. Soon after, he was led down a corridor to a large room where a blue light was building.  
"What shall I do?" he asked.  
"Whatever you want." said Thanos.  
Loki smiled, and waited for the portal to open.

FIN.


End file.
